Giusi Busceti is the founder and president of the Casa della Poesia association at Parco Trotter in Milan. Before *Ufficio del sole,* she published *Sestile* (Corpo 10, 1991) and *A nucleo perso* (LietoColle, 2007).
Her texts have appeared over the years in booklets, magazines, blogs, anthologies, and critical works. Since 2004, she has organized events and meetings to promote the understanding of poetry, including its intersections with other arts and forms of expression, in multicultural outskirts and schools.
Something therefore escapes the stubborn passivity of my calculations. They do not add up in the face of the evidence that there is a colorful return: first, the true and powerful season of my labor ignores it and from the bottom, it jokingly sucks at my exhausted, unaware watering can the instinct to not let myself be ruined.
Therefore, I find myself learning from the shoots and the flowers, stronger than the bitterness that drives me, the loving irrigator well beyond what I want to know. Nothing from here in summer strays from the cool interiors, the mirrored drawers of the hallways, to the south.
Hours as an interval, only, solstice. Pomegranates have lit up the colder days, and oranges.
Now, it’s time, in nothing can the face that has carved itself on the foam of the eastern shore deceive me, the hair falls on the neck, hides the forehead, projections on the elections, first comparisons with 2008. Crueler than the months is this timeless of water and stone.
A downpour rages the windshield.